The Tale of Lund and Lokir
by Little But Fierce
Summary: Lund and Lokir were brothers whose lives began in the small farming village of Rorikstead. Fate played with their lives, twisting the threads that bound their hearts to those they loved. Finally in the cruellest twist of all, it took the arrival of a mythical creature to join the thread in a final, unbreakable knot. NB: The chapters move about through the past and present.
1. The Hut on the Hill

The Tale of Lund and Lokir.

Chapter 1: The Hut on the Hill.

* * *

Lund sat by the cairn of stones looking up at the stars sparkling in the indigo sky. It was late but the night was cool and still. He couldn't sleep. He'd not been able to since - his mind did not like to form the words, never mind his mouth utter them. The candle he'd placed on the stones flickered and then steadied it's glow like a tiny teardrop sun. In the distance he heard a wolf howl and the call of an Elk wandering Rorikstead's rocky hills. The hills he come to know so well.

He looked out towards the Sea of Ghosts, seeing the faint shadow of Solitude perched in the darkness, looming over the harbour like it was too good to sit in the plains or marshes or forests of Skyrim. It occupied the arch and high mountain ridge like a nobleman choosing not to mix with the rabble.

He'd promised her they'd leave Rorikstead for a new life in Solitude. He promised her he'd buy her the finest clothes and she'd wear the most beautiful jewels. He'd made so many promises; turned this little hut into a palace and this dry piece of rocky earth into a garden to win her heart. He would have promised her the moons and the sun and the stars. He took another sip of mead, it was bitter on his tongue.

In the first flush of love they had come to this house, his one room childhood home tucked into a hill on a bare patch of land just above the town. Not that he had any memories of that life, or even of his parents who had built this hut. He and his older brother Lokir had grown up wild on the streets of Riften. He recalled merely a string of beds, some hard, some soft and a parade of little remembered faces, some hard, some soft. A life of begging and stealing, whichever left them less hungry and their needs more fulfilled. He was 12 when his brother woke him in the night, having been absent for days, and told him he had to leave Riften for good and Lund had moments to decide if he'd come with him.

It wasn't much of a choice as Lund had been sleeping rough in Beggar's Row, a damp stinking vault underneath Riften and within an ale's breath of the notorious Ratway. So they left the pile of hay and the mossy stones where Lund had laid his head and headed for Solitude. A place where Lokir said the people were so rich, the coin they dropped turned the streets to gold.

Despite the promises, it was not a happy trip. Whenever they managed to find a kind roof for the night, Lund would be woken in the middle of it and Lokir would say they'd have to go. The third time this happened Lund realised his brother was stealing from the people who took them in resulting in the need for the sudden flight.

One night they left Whiterun in the pitch black at such haste they could almost feel the guard's breath on their backs. It was only thanks to the speed of their youthful legs and the night's darkness that their pursuers gave up and eventually they ran on alone. On the cobbled rough road they slowed and walked beside the desolate tundra in silence, fighting to catch their breath in the cold night air.

Lund with no words for his brother, he was tired of all the running, he was tired of his brother's thieving. As dawn came they crested a small hill and he saw the town of Rorikstead snuggly tucked into the valley before him. The morning light burnished the stacks of wheat and thatched roofs and he felt his heart lift and knew this was where he wanted to stay.

"Brother," he said to Lokir, "what is this place? It so beautiful! Are we dead, is it Sovngarde?"

"It's Rorikstead." Lokir answered quietly.

"Truly? Lokir, you said our parents lived here and that we were born here."

"Yes." Lokir frowned and said no more. He did not have happy memories of their life here. A life lived too close to each other in the tiny hut above the town. Lund knew nothing of the reasons Lokir had spirited himself and his baby brother away from this village all those years ago. He'd vowed never to return, and felt he'd have no need as there was no-one left for them to return to. But even he couldn't help but wonder if the little hut and the little stone cairn were still standing, up on the hill above Rorikstead.


	2. Helgen

The Tale of Lund and Lokir.

Chapter 2: Helgen

* * *

Lokir fell to the ground with a loud cry as the arrows flew past, one a skeever's whisker away from his head. He lay on the stones heart pounding and eyes squeezed shut; hoping the guards wouldn't notice they'd missed their mark. Especially as his arms were flung wide, his binds undone. His fall had finished off what he'd started back on the cart. With the Divines luck the execution would distract them, but still he tensed, waiting for the thud of an arrow in his back.

He pressed his face harder into the cobbles as he heard a thud that could only be the fall of the axe. He prayed to every God he could name his neck would never meet that block.

Lokir was surprised when the ground shook and a mighty roar cracked the air, it hardly seemed right for a mere axe on stone. He fought the urge to move and look, but couldn't resist as the cries of soldiers and the sound of thunder echoed around him. He saw the executioner dead by the block next to the headless body of a Stormcloak, all the other prisoners nowhere to be seen.

Imperial archers were running around in panic and he followed their aim to see an enormous creature perched high on a tower. It looked like some daedra incarnation from Oblivion itself. Violent purple clouds roiled above it spawning a fiery rain of boulders that pounded the ground. Black clawed wings spanned the tower and a boiling river of flame blasted from its wicked mouth.

Just when he had the chance to escape Lokir found himself frozen to the ground in terror. Broken stone and flaming timbers rained down around him and the creature flew about raking the ground with its devastating, burning breath. Smoke billowed from the buildings and voices cried in agony. Lokir squeezed his eyes shut again; convinced his death was imminent.

Eventually the boulders stopped falling, the cries died, the ground stopped shaking and Lokir realised he was alive and unhurt. He took a deep breath and tried to stay his stammering heart. Opening his eyes, he could see the creature was gone and the town was in ruin. Silent smoke wafted around him and he stood on shaking legs.

Fire crackled and a charred beam fell breaking the quiet. The sky was back to its innocent blue, white rabbit tail clouds scudding across it; unaffected witness to the devastation below.

Lokir coughed as the smoke stung his eyes. He managed to make his legs move, but stumbled. Looking down he saw he'd tripped on the remains of a smouldering, blackened body. Lifting his head he saw the whole town was dotted with them. Some were burnt beyond recognition, some were ripped into bloody pieces, some lay pristine and unbroken but deathly still. Shock overwhelmed him and tears began to flow down his ash marked face. He couldn't tell if they were from the smoke or from the horror before him but he wiped his face and ran.


	3. Blood Memories

The Tale of Lund and Lokir.

Chapter 3: Blood Memories

* * *

It took only two nights staying at the run-down hut before Lund and Lokir argued. Lokir was restless; everywhere he turned he was reminded of his life here and just like a dry stick of thatch caught in your shirt, the past worried at him.

Lund had asked him about the cairn and the skeevers. There were more than usual around this house. Lund was convinced there was a nest nearby. He'd always had a way with animals and wasn't afraid of them despite the diseases they carried. As a child back in Riften he'd had a pet fox and cried his six year old eyes out when he'd found it dead by the lake, mauled by a wolf.

Even today he was giving the skeevers whatever little pieces of food he could spare. Lokir tried to stop him. He knew what kept bringing them back - he knew the older ones remembered.

But Lund kept talking about them, kept talking about the cairn and how wonderful Rorikstead was. His young brother was chatty and happy, he'd found work at a farm and had already made a friend. He was even fixing up the little house. He couldn't stop talking.

One more question about the cairn and Lokir lost his temper, shouting at Lund and pushing his brother. Lund tripped on the door frame and banged his head on the porch rail. The wound was slight, but it bled and bled, bright red blood dripping down his face and soaking his shirt.

The sight let loose a flood of memories and Lokir saw visions of other deep, ragged, bloody wounds and the shining stained knife. He heard again the screams of his mother and the sudden silence of his father as he lay dead on the porch.

Lokir turned from his wounded brother and ran, away from the hut, away from the cairn, away from Rorikstead and away from the horrible haunting memories of blood and death.

* * *

Lund woke the next morning in the silent hut. He had not expected his brother to return, but he had hoped. He'd cleaned the blood on his face and patched up the cut as best he could.

Walking out onto the porch, the frosty dawn nipped at his skin and Solitude was shrouded in mist. Suddenly he felt excited, he had a home all his own, a bed that was not straw on stone, he even had a small patch of ground to plant.

"Heyho!" a voice called up from the path. It was his new friend Erik, "Pa says if we finished our work before lunch he'll give us venison pie in the Inn and make us Snowberry milk! Come on, what are you waiting for?"

"I'm coming!" Lund said and Lund ran to meet his friend, a great wide smile across his face.


	4. A Cold Night

The Tale of Lund and Lokir.

Chapter 4: A Cold Night

* * *

Lund leant against the cold pile of stones in the dark. He remembered the day he came to Rorikstead, he remembered the day his brother left and he remembered the day he first laid eyes on Ariette. It had been a good few years after his arrival in the town and he and Erik had just arrived back from Whiterun, after delivering crops to the merchants in town. They were tired and sweaty from the journey and dusk was falling on a typically cool Skyrim day.

They made straight for the Inn, the thought of a well-earned mead on their mind. Entering they saw it was crowded with all the townsfolk of Rorikstead. Erik barrelled on through to the back of the bar but Lund just stopped and stared. He had just seen the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes on. As he stood transfixed she came up to him and he failed to notice she was on Lemkil's arm.

"Who's this?" she said in a sweet voice, smiling.

"Oh that's just a farm lad. Lind, Lud. Hey what's your name son?" Lemkil asked, prodding Lund.

Lund couldn't speak as he was spellbound by the red-headed woman with her eyes greener than a dartwing.

"Hermph." said Lemkil, "He's obviously a little skeever-brained, Arriette. Come over here and meet Rorik." But as the man dragged her away, she looked back over her shoulder.

"Lund," he whispered, "it's Lund."

* * *

He took another sip of the bitter mead and it traced a numb trail down his throat. That had been the beginning of the end, he thought, that moment. Or maybe it had been right at the beginning when he had come over the hill with Lokir and saw Rorikstead spread out before him, so innocently calling him home. Maybe that was the moment. He thought he'd found a good life, a haven away from the deprivation of his childhood. Either way, he'd been doomed and may as well have thrown himself in Lake Honrich before they'd left Riften.

Lund slid down the cairn, grazing his back, but he ignored the sting of pain and sat on the ground. He pulled the little basket into his lap. It was filled with her bread, light as a hawk's feather and the crust always crisp and golden. He kept the basket full to remind him and this was the last of it. The Skeevers came and ate it, but he had kept it full. She'd been a master baker. That was the first time she came to his little hut, trailing around the little village selling bread and then up the hill to him. That was not the last time she came up the hill.

Lund was beginning to feel drowsy and the ground beneath him moved unnaturally. He put the basket back beside the cairn and staggered to his feet. Stumbling towards his porch, he knew the poison was beginning to take effect. He wanted to lay down in his own bed, in his own house, one more time. On The small bed he'd made himself, where he could remember how close they lay together, remember the touch of her hand and the warmth of her breath and pretend she was there again. Instead of where her body now lay, cold and alone, dead in the ground. As the poison wracked his body and he struggled to breathe he smiled at knowing he would see her again soon, his one true love, his only love, Ariette.


	5. Home at Last

The Tale of Lund and Lokir.

Chapter 5: Home at Last. [Final chapter]

* * *

Lokir ran from Helgen and did not stop until he came over the hill to see Rorikstead in its little valley stretched out before him. On sight of the town he collapsed onto the stones of the road, his legs burning and chest heaving. He could still smell the burning dead and wondered if it would he always would.

The little town looked peaceful in the afternoon light, the sky clear and blue, all the way to the Solitude arch. A shadow crossed over him and he started but it was only a drifting hawk, not the demon of fire he had seen lay waste to Helgen.

Lokir found he could not think straight and felt the pull of the little hut high on the hill. He stumbled to his feet and started walking through the town. The normal sounds of farm life assaulted him and made him cringe as they carried on blissfully oblivious to the destruction up in the hills far away.

Lokir hardly lifted his head so failed to notice as some of the farm workers noted his passing. A guard even spoke to him and while some part of his brain told him to run from the man, he said nothing and trudged on regardless.

Finally he came to the little dirt path that curled up the hill and would lead him home. He stopped, wondering how his brother would greet him. It had been years, years that had not been kind to Lokir, years that he never settled, always feeling pushed to move on, always trying to outrun his past and his memories. He walked up the path.

Just as he rounded the bend and saw the pale thatch of the roof and the little wooden porch Lokir was attacked by a squeeling flash of fur. A band of skeevers pounced on him and bit him on his arms, face and his legs. He spun around shrieking and tried to beat them off. Running to the little pile of stones he wrenched one off and angrily beat the nearest animal to death. He shouted at them, incomprehensible words, words he wouldn't remember but one by one they died violently and eventually the little hill was silent. Lokir was shaking, covered in blood and surrounded by broken bleeding bodies.

He threw the rock down on to one still shuddering skeever and stumbled into the hut. More skeevers were inside and he screamed and lifted one in the air and slammed it down on its cousin. Finally they were all silent and still and he collapsed on to the flagstones.

There was a dying fire at his back and he could see his brother asleep on his bed. He could not understand how he had slept through the noise he had made killing the skeevers.

"Sorry brother," Lokir said, "It seems I have killed your pets." He said noticing the plates of food on the hearth, "You'll no doubt be pleased at least, as they got their revenge and likely poisoned me. My hands will start shaking soon I imagine." He stood up and went over to Lund, "Serves me right I suppose, the God's final revenge do you think? No more stealing for me for a while." He placed a gentle hand on his brother who was lying so still. "Brother?" he shook him gently and then again more roughly. Lokir paused and let his hand lay on his brother's chest. Standing in the dim light of the dying fire, covered in skeever blood, the stain of smoke from Helgen, wounded and bleeding, Lokir realised his little brother was dead. He sat down on the bed beside him.

He thought of the day he left this little hut with his small brother in his arms, he was covered in blood that day too. That was the day he woke to his parents arguing, walked out of the hut to see his father kill his mother and then drop to his knees in hysterical grief. That was the day he picked up the knife and stopped his father, stopped him forever. That night he dug a hole and put their bodies in it, piling a cairn of stones upon them and that night the first skeever came. That night he took his little brother in his arms and ran, and he'd not stopped running since.

Lokir noticed the small bottle of poison on the bedside table. He could no longer bear to be in the house. He picked it up and walked out. He left the little hut, the little cairn and the smell of death and walked up the hills behind. He kept walking until he could no longer see the hut, the cairn or even the Solitude Arch. He found a small outcrop of rock and sat down in a small crook beside it. He could see nothing but rock around him, a patch of grass ahead and darkening night sky above. He took out the small bottle and with tears streaming down his face, his heart breaking for the brother he left but never stopped loving, he drank the vial dry.

"I'm sorry." He said, "I failed you brother. I tried but all I did was fail you. Please forgive me."

The night drew in and the wind blew cold among the rocks of Skyrim, its breath icy, straight from the Sea of Ghosts. The rocks did not complain, they knew nothing of the difference of sunlight or frost upon their rough hard skin and the body of the man who now lay at rest among them joined them in their cold indifference, his spirit gone to join his family in blessed, peaceful afterlife.


End file.
